COMPLAINS OF THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE; AN IDYLLIUM by BION

THO' I had writ such poems, that my name
Deserv'd enrolment in the Book of Fame;
Or tho' my Muse could ne'er acquire the bays,
Why thus in drudging do I spend my days?
For should indulgent Heav'n prolong our date,
Doubling the term of life prescrib'd by Fate,
That we might half in care and toil employ,
And spend the other in delights and joy:
We then this sweet assurance might retain,
To reap in time the fruits of all our pain:
But since none can the bounds of life extend,
And all our troubles have a speedy end,
Why do we wrack our brains, and waste our health,
To study curious arts, or heap up wealth?
Sure we forget we came of mortal seed,
And the short time Fate has for us decreed.

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